


The Blood is the Life, is the Madness

by Deanna (SweetSorcery)



Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Diary/Journal, Gen, Missing Scene, Psychology, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-29
Updated: 2011-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-25 01:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSorcery/pseuds/Deanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Seward fights not only the demons clawing at his lost love but also the demons within.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blood is the Life, is the Madness

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Based upon Bram Stoker's Dracula, this story was created for non-profit, non-infringement entertainment.
> 
> Archiving: Nowhere except here, and not in translated form either.
> 
> Author's Notes: This was written for prodigy during the Yuletide 2006 challenge.

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY -- deleted entries

 ** _17 September._** \-- The blood is the life. Those words spoken by my unfortunate patient during his attack upon me earlier to-night keep me awake. This is the first night in some time where I might recharge my body and spirit with long due rest; that I should be deprived of it tells me that in some fashion, Renfield must be party to the devilish conspiracy which plagues our fight for Lucy's life.

For if there is indeed such a conspiracy, how could he not be, with his madman's insight into the giving and taking of blood -- representative of life -- to renew a creature weakened, or to weaken it further. I shudder to recall the way he lapped my blood up off the floor, as though he too had fallen victim to whatever was draining Lucy's blood and needed to resort to desperate measures to replenish his dwindling life force. Unlike Lucy, he is in possession of a mind so addled, and thus determined, that it provides him with the cunning and strength to seek and take whatever he needs.

I wonder whether it was merely my blood he came for, or whether he might not have killed me without a second thought, just as he has killed his progression of flies, spiders and birds. To him, is there any difference left between an animal and a man, for after all, 'The blood is the life'. Perhaps any blood, and thus any life, will do. Unlike in Lucy's case--

Van Helsing's lack of a theory regarding Lucy's illness troubles me greatly, and there are times when I wonder whether he tells me all he knows. I am disturbed by his insinuation that my blood is somehow inferior to Art's, and scarcely superior to what his own, aged veins provide. I feel foolish to care for such trivialities at a time like this, but it irks me more than I shall ever admit to his face. He reasoned that he and I toil much in the world of thought, and that thus, our nerves are not as strong and our blood not as bright as Art's. I cannot help but wonder, on the verge on an uneasy, distracted sleep, whether he might not have implied something about my own state of mind, and indeed, my very worth, which makes me a lesser donor. And more frighteningly still, Van Helsing's words put me in mind of Renfield's one time implication that the idea of his wanting to murder me was nothing short of ridiculous. I shall never know whether he saw a fellow lunatic in me that day, or whether he thought my life not worth taking -- too weak, as Van Helsing sees me. Which is worse, I wonder: weakness of the mind, or of the body?

Ah! but I should sleep, lest I prove them both right by collapsing when I am needed most. When Lucy might need me most. I know deep inside me that something terrible, and this time irreversible, is about to befall her. If, or when, it does, I must be strong. I must be what none feel me capable of being.

My mentor's lack of faith in me is a disappointment, but what of Lucy? For if Van Helsing thinks me weak, what then must she make of me? Is this perhaps why she refused my suit? Not because I lack Art's wealth and nobility, or Quincey's boisterous confidence, but because she thinks me infirm of body or mind? I cannot help but wonder whether there is something I could have done to prove myself worthy of her affections. Is there anything I could do, even now? If I thought he would agree to it, I would ask Van Helsing to cut me open before her very eyes and drain all my blood for her sake. Weak blood or not - all of it, given with love, would surely suffice?

It is clear that I shall find no rest to-night. Were he not doomed already, I would curse Renfield for planting the seeds of such thoughts in my mind; instead, I must curse my mind for providing fertile soil for them. Perhaps it is in this that I find proof of my own impending insanity, for surely, a sane, strong man would not subject himself to such ponderings and doubts. But now I have begun to think this way, I find it hard to desist, and it is in thoughts such as these that the beginnings of lunacy are to be found. I have seen it often enough in others to recognize it, and I shall never again wonder why the poor mad things are not able to kill their disease at the outset by sheer willpower, for I now see how very persistent destructive thoughts can be. They worm their way into ones consciousness, slowly poisoning all else until it seems that nothing true and right has ever lived there at all.

How can I contemplate sleep when at once, the screams and wails and absurd mutterings of my patients fill me with a dread that runs deeper than the pity I feel for them, or the scientific curiosity that has always steadied me. To-night, as I listen to them, I find myself wondering whether I shall not join them one day, in one of those cages, my body bound tightly with a strait-waistcoat and my rotting brain spinning and turning in agony. I wonder whether I too will one day collect flies, and spiders, and birds to feed on them, and to at last end up feeding on them myself, in some doomed quest for strength and survival.

I need to believe that I am not made for the life of a Renfield. I will not crouch on dirty floors -- spittle on my chin and empty madness in my eyes -- while the next 'me' peers in at my chained body through the bars, gleefully taking note of every action, every word, to add them to the growing list of my curious symptoms. I will not wait for it to come to that. Whatever lies in the immediate future, and whatever is required to save Lucy's life, or her soul at least, I shall do it with no regard for myself. And if I should die trying, I will at least have left this world in possession of my faculties.

For now, I fear I must once again reach for my sleeping aid. Perhaps it is too much to ask of myself to hold onto my strength on a sleep-deprived mind.

  


 ** _18 September._** \-- All has changed once again, and this day feels like the longest of my life. Van Helsing is watching over Lucy at this moment, with Quincy patrolling the gardens, while I am meant to be resting. Yet who could rest after reading Lucy's note, written during that fateful period last night when neither Van Helsing nor myself were at her side, both thinking her safe in the other's care. How she must have suffered and troubled herself to pen such a thing, with the servants drugged and her mother dead! Van Helsing asked me to forget it for the time being, but I find I am unable to think of anything else. It is surely the product of a disturbed mind at best, or the proof of a horror unlike anything any of us could have imagined at worst--

Last night, I feared for my own mind. Now, I fear for Lucy's. And there is a part of me which insists that I am to blame. Did she not write this strange tale of wolves and bats and specks dancing in the air after my blood entered her veins? Is this proof of her madness at all, or rather of my own?

Renfield's words come back to me yet again -- the blood is the life. Yes, it is the life. And yet, it is also the carrier of many afflictions, perhaps including those of the brain. Have I added to Lucy's physical suffering by contaminating her pure, clear mind as well? And will Quincey's blood administered to her earlier act as antidote to mine, if we are in fact dealing with a disease at all?

Her note seems like nothing so much as the feverish fancies of an ailing girl, and yet, there is cause to think that it may contain some truth, from the way she described her poor mother's fate and the state of the servants. But perhaps those traumatic events themselves caused the wild and strange notions she went on to describe?

I fear I shall never know, for I find myself in agreement with Van Helsing -- Lucy's fate is certainly sealed; but whatever may come upon her today, tomorrow, or the day after that, I feel that mine may be as well.


End file.
